


Alexithymia

by thatonewritergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonewritergirl/pseuds/thatonewritergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is diagnosed with cancer, he and Sherlock must make decisions both regarding John's time and their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from both the condition and the Anberlin song. Mainly the condition, but the song is one of my favorites. You should listen to it if you haven't...Also, this work hasn't been beta'd or Brit-picked, so any errors are mine.

Sherlock, I need you to come home now.-JW  
No. Case-SH  
I know, but it's important.-JW  
Case. You come here.-SH  
I can't. Sherlock, I just need you home.-JW  
No.-SH  
SHERLOCK! Leave your sodding case.-JW  
Ten minutes. This had better be at least a nine.-SH  
This isn't exactly a case.-JW  
What could be more important than a case?-SH  
Me?-JW  
At least I should hope I am.-JW  
Of course.-SH  
Ten minutes.-SH  
I'm sorry, Sherlock.-JW  
Just don't do it again.-SH  
Yeah. I won't.-JW

Sherlock frowned, reading the last text. He stood and walked away from the body, leaving a baffled Lestrade standing there.  
“Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you going?” Lestrade demanded. “You said you would help!”  
“And I will. I'm needed elsewhere. Text if you need me.”  
He strode off, hailing a cab quickly. John was being quite secretive. The last time, it had been his birthday, and even then John had waited until he was off the case. Being held hostage? No. John would have used the code. Sherlock's frown deepened as he made the short trip to Baker Street. When he arrived, he tossed a few bills through the window and got out of the cab. He unlocked the door and made his way up the stairs.  
“John?”  
No answer. Sherlock ran up the rest of the steps and frowned. John was sitting on the sofa, staring despondently at a few papers in his hand. Sherlock crossed the room and knelt in front of him, observing. Shoulders slumped. Red eyes; tracks on his cheeks. He'd been crying. Hands were trembling. He was scared, then. But not of anything concrete. Nothing he could control. Nothing visible or tangible, or his hands would be steady. Sherlock's attention turned to the papers. Not deployment papers. Doctor's papers. Oh.  
“John,” Sherlock said again, touching his knee.  
John jolted, looking down at Sherlock. “When did you get here?”  
“Two minutes, twenty seven seconds ago.”  
“Oh,” John said quietly. “Um...sit down?”  
Sherlock frowned, but did as he was told, taking a seat beside John. He looked at the floor, rather than the papers. He had a fair idea of what they said, but he wanted to hear it from John.  
“Yes? What was so important that it would take me from a case?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound normal.  
John cleared his throat. “Uh...well, you know how I went to the doctor a few weeks ago?”  
“Yes. It was during the case with the cats. I needed you and you weren't there.”  
Pushing down a stab of annoyance, John continued. “I had a follow-up appointment today.” His throat tightened. He couldn't finish his statement.  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “And? What did you find out?”  
“I...I can't,” John said apologetically. He handed the papers wordlessly to Sherlock.  
At a glance, Sherlock picked out the important phrases.  
Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia.  
“I see,” Sherlock said quietly.  
John laughed hysterically. “You see? You see? How could you possibly see?”  
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth. “Forgive me. I'm not sure what to say.”  
“Yeah,” John said, running a hand across his face. “I know.”  
“It isn't a death sentence.”  
John nodded, staring at the floor.  
Seeing John's reaction, Sherlock's composure slipped. “John...what do I do?”  
“There's nothing you can do,” John said grimly.  
Sherlock nodded once and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders in a rather awkward embrace.  
“Sherlock?” John asked warily. “What are you doing?”  
“Honestly John, I would think you would know what a hug is.”  
John's expression softened and he relaxed against Sherlock. “I'm scared, Sherlock. I'm properly, properly scared.”  
“I know,” Sherlock said quietly. “I'll talk to Mycroft. He owes me. The very least he can do is pay for you to have a private oncologist.”  
“What if--”  
“No,” Sherlock interrupted sharply. “Don't even think that.”  
His arms tightened around John's, as though that could keep him safe. John closed his mouth, simply resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.  
“I'm scared, Sherlock,” John said again.  
Sherlock stared at the wall. I am too, John, he thought. He pushed the fear down. It wouldn't solve anything. He needed to think rationally.  
“Have you had lunch?” John would need to keep up his strength.  
John laughed humourlessly. “Had a bit on my mind.”  
“Well, you need to eat. We could do takeaway. I don't think we have anything edible here. You'll need something with protein, so you keep up your strength--”  
“Sherlock...”  
“--Perhaps Pad Thai. That has peanut butter and meat or if you don't want that--”  
“Sherlock!”  
“Angelo could fix some ravioli. I know you like Angelo's ravioli. They've got a nice sausage one--”  
“SHERLOCK!”  
Sherlock flinched and abruptly closed his mouth. John saw this and sighed, running his hand over his face.  
“Pad Thai sounds fine,” John said, a peace offering.  
Sherlock nodded. “What's the number for Happiness?”  
“I'll call,” John said, resisting the urge to smile. Of course Sherlock wouldn't know the number to their favourite Thai restaurant.  
John called and ordered the food, still resting against Sherlock. He noticed vaguely that Sherlock's hand was tracing patterns on his shoulder, but he didn't say anything.  
“Things are going to change,” John said quietly.  
“I know.”  
“Will you stay with me?”  
“Of course.”  
John nodded. “Thank you.”  
A smile played across Sherlock's lips, never actually forming. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

When John woke the next morning, it took him a few seconds to remember what had happened. The realisation hit him hard, and he rolled over, wiping his eyes. Blinking awake, John jerked back, hitting his head on the headboard. His flatmate and friend was currently fast asleep right next to him.  
“Sherlock, what the hell?” John demanded, his eyes watering in pain.  
Sherlock stirred in his sleep, throwing an arm over his face. “Stop yelling,” he mumbled.  
“You...are in my bed. Why the hell are you in my bed?” John asked. “On a list of things that are a bit not good, this is pretty damn close to the top!”  
“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled, opening his eyes. “You were having a bad dream. I could hear you screaming from the sitting room.”  
John flushed a dark pink. “Oh. Right”  
The dreams came back to him. Afghanistan blended with Sherlock's fall and transitioned to the day he had visited Sherlock's grave. Only the grave was his. And Sherlock was the one begging him to come back. He shook his head to clear it.  
“Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you,” he murmured.  
“Of course you didn't. I apologise for making you uncomfortable.”  
He started to move, but John stopped him. “Could you...stay...maybe? I know it's a bit strange, but I'd rather not be alone.”  
Sherlock considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Of course. I'm surprised you would want me to, though. You're always so concerned with appearances.”  
“Sometimes the need for comfort overrules appearances. Besides, the only one who's going to see is Mycroft.” He raised his hand in a two finger salute, knowing that Mycroft's surveillance cameras would catch it.  
From below, there was a knock at the door.  
“I didn't think he'd take that much offence,” John teased.  
“It's not Mycroft,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “It's Lestrade. I left the case rather abruptly yesterday.  
John's eyes widened. “I don't want to see him. Don't tell him. I don't want people to know yet.”  
“Relax. I'll take care of him. Just stay here.”  
Sherlock made his way down the stairs, glaring at Lestrade, who had been let in by Mrs. Hudson.  
“He was having a nightmare, you idiot.”  
Lestrade raised his hands, palms outward. “Look, what you two do on your own time is your business--”  
“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked sharply.  
“You left the case yesterday. Without saying why. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” Lestrade said honestly.  
Sherlock went to the kitchen, turning on the kettle. John would need some sort of breakfast. Finding some bread that wasn't being used for a mold experiment, Sherlock stuck it in the toaster and grabbed a tin of beans.  
“Sherlock...are you cooking?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have to eat from time to time.” He didn't mention the fact that it was for John.  
“Right. Yeah,” Lestrade said, nodding. “I just never saw you as the type to cook.”  
“Well, not all of us have young mortician wives to cook for us,” Sherlock said with a knowing look.  
Lestrade's mouth opened and closed. “I'm not going to ask how you knew that. Just don't spread it around. Molly doesn't want a whole lot of people knowing yet. Small wedding. Eloped, actually.”  
Sherlock nodded. They were in the same situation there. “Of course. I'm not exactly one for gossip, now am I?”  
Lestrade smiled at that. “Gossip, no, but you are rather prone to using whatever means necessary to cut a person down to size.”  
“I won't tell anyone,” Sherlock said, thoroughly exasperated. He took the toast from the toaster and put it on a plate, opening the tin of beans. Pouring them into a bowl, he heated them. “Is there any reason you're still here?”  
“Are you going to help with the case?”  
“I already told you that I am. No, you came here for a much more personal reason. You want to know why I left the case yesterday. I'm afraid to say you came here for nothing, because I'm not going to tell you that. It was my own personal business, so leave it at that.”  
Lestrade blinked a few times. “Yeah. Alright. Just...take care of yourself, yeah?”  
Sherlock nodded once as he finished making breakfast. “If that's all, please see yourself out.”  
Standing, Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Alright. Don't see how John puts up with you,” he grumbled, walking down the stairs.  
Sherlock frowned, feeling a strange emotion that he couldn't quite name. However, he shook his head and loaded the breakfast and tea onto a tray, carrying it to John.  
“Is he gone?” John asked, sitting up. He blinked, his eyebrows raising. “What did you do.”  
“Yes, he's gone. I made breakfast. You need it.”  
John shook his head. “No...Sherlock...what did you do? Did you use my favourite jumper in an experiment? Did you search through my room while I was asleep? Did you use my name in a case? Am I--”  
“John, I made you breakfast,” Sherlock said firmly. “Because you need it.”  
John sighed, his heart sinking. It was already starting. “You made this because I'm sick, didn't you?”  
Sherlock opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Staring at the floor, he nodded. “You need--”  
“Sherlock, shut it. I'm a doctor, remember? Actual doctor. With actual training. I know what I need and it's not your pity.”  
“Forgive me,” Sherlock said quietly. “I thought this was the sort of thing friends did. I would never pity you, John.”  
John stared up at him, searching his face. Finally, he patted the bed beside him. “Come here. Thank you for the food.”  
He took a bite, ignoring the fact that the toast was burned and the beans were cold. Sherlock looked at him expectantly.  
“ 'S good, Sherlock. Thanks.”  
Sherlock smiled broadly, clearly pleased with himself. “Nothing's drugged. Or even possibly drugged. I promise. No questionable sugar.”  
John's eyes crinkled as he grinned. “Thanks. That means a lot.” He took another bite of toast. “You should eat some.”  
“Not hungry,” Sherlock said automatically. “John, we're going to have to tell Mycroft.”  
“I know,” John said, nodding. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. It came back streaked with blood. “Shit,” John muttered.  
Sherlock's eyes widened with fear. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice tinged with fear. “What can I do?”  
“I'm fine. Just get me a flannel,” John instructed calmly. The doctor in him knew that it was just a symptom. He had already experienced the fatigue, the bruising, the dizzy spells. But somehow this made it all the more real. There was no denying it. He had cancer.  
Sherlock returned with a wet cloth and John took it gratefully, tipping his head forward, rather than back. He didn't want to choke on his own blood.  
“Is there anything I can--”  
John cut him off by shaking his head and holding up his hand. There was nothing that could be done; he just had to wait it out. John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the blood flow. Crossing his arms, Sherlock stared intently at John, as though that would help. John rolled his eyes.  
“Roll of gauze in my bag. Get it,” he ordered. That would at least help the blood to start coagulating again.  
Sherlock searched through the bag, dumping most of the contents on the bed before finding the QuikClot packet and handing it to John.  
“Thanks.” John took the packet and tore it open, shoving the cotton into his nose. He let out an exasperated breath. “Well, that's annoying.” Seeing that Sherlock's face was paler than normal, his eyes narrowed. “Hey. Come here. Come sit down. I'm fine.”  
Sherlock sat beside him, staring at the wall.  
“It was just a nosebleed, Sherlock,” John said quietly, trying to comfort the other man. “And yeah, there will probably be more of them.”  
Sherlock's breath hitched. More nosebleeds. More fatigue. John would get weaker. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. John took Sherlock's hand, forgetting that his own was streaked with blood. “We're going to be okay,” he said. He wasn't sure if he was trying to comfort Sherlock or himself. As much as Sherlock tried, he couldn't quite believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your feedback and your kudos! You're all awesome!


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock entered the flat after hours at the Yard, bounding up the steps. The case had been solved—a matter of mistaken identity. It had been at least a solid eight. Smiling, he walked up the seventeen steps to their flat.  
“John, the case is over. Mycroft will be here in a few hours to talk about...oh.”  
John was curled up on the sofa, a thick quilt around him, fast asleep. One side of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward as he sat down in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin and watched John intently. He could almost forget John was sick like this. Almost. John didn't take naps. He never slept during movies, or when Sherlock was doing something particularly boring with a case. The only time he ever slept outside of nighttime was when he and Sherlock had been up for a long period of time for a case.  
Grabbing John's laptop from the desk, Sherlock searched Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia and spent the next hour and a half researching, making notes when he found something of importance. John stirred in his sleep and the quilt fell off his shoulders. Sherlock set the laptop on the floor and went to replace the quilt, noting that John's skin was bruised. The part of Sherlock that had just done research knew it was only a side effect of the cancer, but it made him irrationally angry. He walked back over to the chair and sat, glaring at John's shoulder.  
The bell rang and John jolted awake, blinking rapidly. “When did you get here?” he asked Sherlock.  
“Roughly two hours and fifteen minutes ago. Mycroft's at the door. Mrs. Hudson will get it. He's here to talk about getting a private oncologist,” Sherlock said quickly.  
“You know, Sherlock, you could answer your own door, rather than making your landlady get it,” Mycroft said, entering the room.  
“You know, Mycroft, you could kidnap my flatmate yourself, rather than making your assistant do it,” Sherlock countered.  
John rolled his eyes, watching the interaction. “He means hello,” he said to the both of them.  
Mycroft smiled tightly and sat down in John's chair. “How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?”  
“Oh...right as rain, you know,” he said sarcastically. “Sorry I didn't make tea, but I was a bit knackered.”  
“That's perfectly understandable with your condition.”  
“I know it is,” John said sharply. He shook his head, to clear it. “Anyway. Sherlock says you're here to talk about an oncologist?”  
Sherlock listened intently, knowing that the money would come from both his account and Mycroft's. That was perfectly fine with him. He would give up any amount of money for John to be okay. Because John had to be okay.  
“Yes. I've talked to a Doctor Green who seems more than competent. He is, of course, the best, which is what both Sherlock and I would want for you.”  
John nodded slowly. “How much--”  
“No.” Mycroft cut him off sharply. “You're not allowed to ask that.”  
John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock interrupted him. “My brother and I agree on this one point,” he said. “Your healthcare will be free to you.”  
“No.” John shook his head, holding up a finger when both brothers started to speak. “Please, just...I don't want your charity. Let me pay for what I can.”  
“With what?” Sherlock asked. “You're going to be out of work while you're undergoing chemotherapy--”  
“I know,” John snapped. “Believe it or not, I am a doctor with an actual degree. I know what's going to happen. I'm going to be weak and bald and frail and even then I have only a 43% chance of it going away. I don't want your money. I don't want your pity. I just want to die with a bit of dignity, thanks.”  
By the end of his speech, John was panting, completely out of breath. Sherlock's face had gone paler than normal. Seeing his brother, Mycroft rounded on John.  
“What amount of money would you have paid for Sherlock to live those three years you thought him dead?” Mycroft demanded.  
“That's different,” John mumbled.  
“Is it? Please, do explain.”  
“You're only doing this because I'm sick. Because you pity me.”  
“You're right on one account,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “We are only doing this because you're sick. You wouldn't need it otherwise. But not because we pity you. Damn the numbers. John I can't lose you.”  
John stared at the floor, not knowing what to say. Sherlock had only been vocal about his feelings once, and that was only after he had been scared. John might not have been the world's only consulting detective, but even he could draw parallels there. Sherlock was scared. For him. Sighing, John looked up at Sherlock and nodded.  
“Alright. Yeah, okay. You can pay for it. But I want to pay for what I can.”  
“No. This is a gift,” Mycroft said. “My brother and I come from a wealthy family. The cost of your treatment would not place a heavy burden on us as it would you. That's not derogatory, it's a fact. You mean more to our family than money. Let us do this for you.”  
“I'm not going to win this, am I?”  
Sherlock smiled. “No. You aren't. Just let us. It would be no different than one spouse paying for another's treatment.”  
John raised an eyebrow. “Yes it would be,” he said, slightly taken aback. “For starters, we're not married. Not even romantically involved. Look, you can pay for my treatment, okay? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm still tired.”  
He stood and quickly left the room, making his way slowly up the stairs. Sherlock turned to Mycroft, frowning slightly.  
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, feeling that strange, unnamed emotion again.  
“I believe comparing the two of you to a married couple may have shocked and slightly disturbed John.”  
Sherlock's frown deepened. “Why would it have done that? He said at the beginning that it was 'all fine' so why would it disturb him that much?”  
“I believe Doctor Watson was speaking in general,” Mycroft explained. He hesitated. “If you wanted to tell him of your feelings, you went about it the wrong way.”  
“And when did you become an expert on feelings? John is my friend,” Sherlock said with a flare. “He's not 'gay.' And I'm...me.”  
Mycroft crossed his arms. “Sherlock, we've been over this.”  
“I don't want to talk about it.”  
“Just because you're...you, doesn't make you incapable of loving.” He knew how much Sherlock hated the term.  
“Stop,” Sherlock said, his voice brittle.  
Mycroft sighed. “As you wish.” He stood and looked at Sherlock. “If you're going to tell him, I would suggest you do it soon.”  
“Thank you for that wonderful bit of advice. Now leave.”  
“Yes alright. He has an appointment the day after tomorrow at eleven thirty. Don't be late,” Mycroft said.  
He turned on his heel and abruptly left. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, thinking about the visit. John had been disturbed when Sherlock had compared them to a married couple, but two days ago, he had been comfortable with Sherlock in his bed. He needed more data.  
Sherlock stood and went to his bedroom, quickly changing into his standard white shirt and navy pyjama bottoms. He walked quietly up the stairs and into John's room. No fewer than five blankets covered John, ranging from thick duvets to threadbare quilts. And yet...John was still shivering. Sherlock slipped under the covers, pulling John to his chest. Body heat. John needed body heat.  
John jolted awake, pulling back immediately. “Sherlock! For the love of...know I wasn't dreaming, so what the hell are you doing in my bed? Again?”  
“Body heat,” Sherlock said curtly, moving away. “You were shivering. Mycroft left. You've an appointment the day after tomorrow.”  
“Right...yeah...Sherlock, you're in my bed. In your pyjamas. In the middle of the day. What's going on?”  
“Nothing,” Sherlock said stiffly.  
John sighed, running a hand across his face. “Yeah, alright.” He wouldn't press. Not now. He couldn't bring himself to ask. Instead, he turned his focus back on the appointment. “Will you go with me to the doctor?”  
“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asked quietly.  
“Yeah...maybe. I don't know. Probably.”  
“If you want me to, I will.”  
John was silent for a moment. “Sherlock, will you go with me to the doctor?”  
Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock, stop fidgeting.”  
“The chair's uncomfortable.”  
“It's a doctor's office. Of course it's uncomfortable.”  
The receptionist looked up at them, smiling falsely. Sherlock rolled his eyes while John returned the smile.  
“When I asked you to come with me, I thought you'd be a little more pleasant,” John hissed, trying to concentrate on filling out his paperwork.  
“It's a doctor's office,” Sherlock muttered. “I don't have a very good history with them.”  
John sighed, looking up from the clipboard. “Then it's a good thing we're not here for you, now isn't it?”  
Sherlock's mouth opened and closed. “Oh,” he said quietly.  
“It's fine,” John said dismissively.  
One of his knees rested against Sherlock's, but he didn't notice. The same could not be said for Sherlock. Rather than saying anything, however, he remained silent. John finished his paperwork and returned the clipboard to the receptionist. She smiled gently at him.  
“Thank you Mr. Watson. The doctor will call you back soon,” she said pleasantly.  
“Doctor,” Sherlock corrected. John rolled his eyes.  
“Excuse me?” The receptionist asked.  
“John is a doctor, and therefore his title is Doctor Watson, not Mr. Watson.”  
“It's fine,” John muttered, walking away. “Sherlock, either be more pleasant or go home.”  
“Apologies. It was only the truth,” Sherlock said petulantly.  
“Sherlock, listen to me and listen well. I don't give a damn that it was the truth. I'm scared right now and you're really not helping. Now, if you don't have anything nice to say, shut up.” John's voice was almost too low for Sherlock to hear. However, he knew he had gotten his point across when Sherlock didn't speak for a few minutes. He stared at his phone, sending messages to Lestrade and Molly.  
“You know Molly and Greg are expecting, right?” John asked, trying to start a conversation.  
Sherlock looked confused. “Expecting what?”  
John snorted. “You're kidding, right?” That earned him a glare. “Oh. Um...well, Greg and Molly are expecting a baby. Molly's pregnant.”  
“What relevance does that have on our lives?”  
John sighed. “Well, they're our friends, Sherlock. And that's really big news for them. It's great news.”  
“That's...nice.”  
“They want us to be godfathers.”  
“Oh?” Sherlock asked, blinking. “What does that mean?”  
John considered this. “Well...couples normally pick their best friends. People they would want to be close to the child. People they would want to help raise the child, should anything happen to the parents.”  
Sherlock frowned. “And they chose us? Why?”  
“Because we're their best mates.”  
“Don't they have siblings for this sort of thing?”  
“Greg's sister has four kids and Molly's brother is going to school in Tibet.” John shrugged. “Look, just because we're godfathers doesn't mean we have to raise the baby if anything happens to them. Basically, we're just...honorary uncles.”  
“Alright...”  
The nurse opened the door and stuck her head out. “Mr. Watson?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Doctor,” he muttered.  
“Come on, Sherlock,” John said with a sigh.  
The nurse led them back to a small room, taking John's height, weight, and blood pressure before asking a series of questions.  
“Do you drink?”  
“Occasionally.”  
“Smoke?”  
“No.”  
“Do you have a family history of cancer?”  
John cleared his throat. “Just my grandfather.”  
The nurse continued asking questions, typing the answers into the computer. After about fifteen minutes, she stood and smiled warmly. “The doctor will be in shortly.”  
John shifted in his chair as the door closed.  
“Is this really the best time to think about that?” Sherlock asked, slightly bemused.  
“Think about what?” John asked, looking up.  
“She's separated from her husband, but hopes they can work it out for the sake of their three children.”  
John blinked. “Oh. No, I suppose you're right. Probably not the best time to think about that.”  
Sherlock's nose twitched. If he had to put a name to his emotion—he mentally shuddered at the word—it would be jealousy. John was interested in a nurse whose name he didn't even know. He had no right to be jealous. John dated women. Even if he did date men, he wouldn't date Sherlock. Still...Sherlock was taking care of John. As best he could. That had to count for something.  
There was a knock on the door and the doctor entered, shaking both of their hands.  
“John, I'm Dr. Green. Can I call you John? One doctor to another?”  
John tried and mostly failed to smile. “Of course. This is Sherlock Holmes.”  
Dr. Green nodded. “I know who both of you are. I read your blog quite regularly. Mr. Holmes, I understand that it can be difficult, when your partner is going through cancer. We have several support groups--”  
“Sherlock and I aren't together,” John said quickly.  
“Right,” the doctor said, ducking his head. “Sorry. I just assumed that...”  
“People always do,” Sherlock said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. John Watson's first line of defence: We're not a couple. Next step: I'm not gay.  
“Apologies,” Dr. Green said. He turned back to John's chart. “John, how long have you noticed things were...off?”  
“The fatigue, a few months ago. I'd taken more hours at the clinic and we had several cases all at once. I just thought it was normal. Then about two months ago, the dizzy spells and bruising started Most of the time, that's normal. Working with Sherlock usually ends with a few bruises. But this was different.”  
“Different how?” the doctor asked, taking notes.  
“I didn't go on a few cases,” John answered. “Felt a little under the weather. I thought I had the flu, so I stayed home. The bruises still happened. I was still tired, but I didn't have a fever. After a few weeks I went to the doctor. They ran a few tests, took some blood and...well, now we know things are off.”  
At some point while John was speaking, Sherlock had moved closer. He placed his hand in John's to comfort him. It had been an unconscious move, but he was pleased when John didn't pull away. The doctor looked between the two of them, but didn't say anything.  
“You're right on that account. Things are off. I'm afraid we're going to have to draw a bit more blood and run a few more tests before we can determine which type of chemotherapy you should undergo. One of the tests is a lumbar puncture. That'll help us find out if the leukaemia cells have reached the spinal cord and brain fluid.”  
John nodded. “That's understandable.”  
“We'll also need to subtype your leukaemia and test you for the Philadelphia chromosome,” Dr. Green continued. “We'll need to set you up for both an MRI and the lumbar puncture sometime either this week or next. Talk to Marianne, the receptionist, on your way out.”  
Sherlock's blood was pounding in his ears. So soon. This was all happening so soon. His grip on John's hand tightened, but still John didn't pull away. There would be tests. Okay. Then would come treatment. His mind raced through several possible scenarios, never fully finishing because each ended with the unacceptable event of John's death.  
“Sherlock,” John said, breaking though his thoughts.  
Sherlock blinked, immediately snapping back to the present. He looked around, finding that Dr. Green had left.  
“You alright, mate?” John asked, trying to look at Sherlock's face.  
Of course, only John would think of him during his own doctor's appointment. Sherlock forced himself to nod. “We should get lunch. Rather, you should get lunch. I'm not hungry.”  
John nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, alright. I have to talk to Marianne on my way out to set up the tests.”  
Sherlock stood, helping John to his feet. He waited as patiently as possible for John to make the appointments and then led him to the lift and out the door. He noted, somewhat pleased, that John didn't let go of his hand until they arrived at Angelo's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found and fixed a continuity error in chapter two where Molly and Lestrade were just staring to date. They are, in fact, married.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, I hate this chapter. Mostly because it features very little John/Sherlock interaction, but I just don't like it in general. So, sorry. It'll get better. I promise.

The night before John's MRI appointment, Lestrade called with a new case. Third murder with the same MO, police completely baffled. At any other time, it would have been brilliant. Now it was just a nuisance.  
“I can't take the case,” Sherlock said irritably.  
“Why not?” Lestrade demanded. “I talked to your brother. You've not got another case. You should be jumping at a case like this.”   
Damn his brother. He was trying to force the news that John was sick out into the public. Sherlock wouldn't let him.  
“I should, and now I'm not. The wonderful thing about being the world's only consulting detective is that I get to pick and choose my cases. Good day, Lestrade.”  
“Sherlock! Sherlock don't you dare ha--”  
Sherlock smiled at the phone as he ended the call.  
“Who was that?” John asked, stepping into the sitting room. His hair was still wet from the shower. Sherlock noted with a stab of irrational anger that there were dark circles under John's eyes.  
“Lestrade. Triple homicide. I turned him down. Only a five,” Sherlock said dismissively.  
John's eyes narrowed. “Sherlock...”  
“John,” Sherlock countered.  
“Take the case.”  
“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “I'm not taking it.”  
“Yes you are. For my sake as much as yours. You may not think much of my deduction skills, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out why you turned it down,” John snapped.  
Sherlock held his gaze. “And what reason would that me?”  
“Because I have an MRI tomorrow.” John sighed. “Look, take the case. You'll be bored at the hospital. I'll call Harry and Clara and it'll be fine.”  
Sherlock was silent for quite a while. “Where do I tell them you are?”  
John shrugged. “Tell them I work tomorrow.”  
“That won't do. Tomorrow's Thursday. You don't work on Thursdays.”  
“Fine. Tell them I've got the flu. That's going around. Just...don't tell them. Not yet.”  
Sherlock nodded, grabbing his coat and scarf. “I'll be back.” Impulsively he pulled John into a hug. “Try to get some sleep.” He left the flat quickly, leaving John alone and confused.

“Oi, Freak. You said you weren't coming,” Anderson sneered.   
Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down Anderson. “I see Mrs. Anderson met Sally. Tell me, how did that go?”  
Lestrade walked up to them, cutting off Anderson's retort. “Nice of you to show up. Where's John?”  
Sherlock held his gaze. “Ill. Treated one too many cases of the flu.”  
“Alright. Tell him I still expect to see him at the pub this Friday.” He led Sherlock over to the corpse.  
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Sherlock remarked.  
Greg smiled brightly. “Yeah. We'd already decided to get married, but when Molls found out...we just decided why not now?”  
Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifier, staring intently. “She had a desk job, most likely a receptionist, going by the ink patterns and the state of her nails. Strangled, but not with hands or a rope. A much smoother material, but one with a faint pattern. You're looking for a man with something against women who fit this description. A mother, or a girlfriend, perhaps. He hates women who look like her. The footprints leading away from the body are boots. Industrial, most likely. I'll need to run tests on the soil to see where our murderer has been.”  
He knelt and picked up a bit of ash, sniffing. He smokes Dunhill, judging from the ash. That's all I can answer now.” Standing, he moved to leave, but was stopped by Lestrade.  
“You're going to Bart's?” he asked expectantly.  
Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded. “I'll need soil samples, as well as skin scrapings from around the neck of the victim to determine what she was strangled with.”  
“Anderson,” Lestrade called. “Get him what he needs.”  
Anderson rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Lestrade stared at Sherlock for quite a while, as if trying to figure something out.  
“You're hiding something,” he said, crossing his arms. “Look, it's none of my business, but—”  
“You're right,” Sherlock interrupted. “It's none of your business.”  
“If you're thinking of pulling another stunt like you did, don't even think about it,” Greg said flatly. “John won't survive it this time.”  
Sherlock's blood ran cold. “Thank you for your input, Lestrade. If you need me, you know where to find me.” He turned and strode away, his mind replaying what Lestrade had said. 'John won't survive it this time.' That was unacceptable. John had to be okay.  
The next few hours were spent analysing the soil and skin scrapings. The man worked on the Thames and used his belt to strangle the woman. Satisfied that forensics could handle the rest, he started back home. Letting himself in, he bypassed the main floor and headed straight to John's room. He was asleep, huddled under the mass of covers. Sherlock undressed to his pants and slid in bed. It had become routine over the past few days. He had learned the first afternoon that clothes were much too hot under the blankets.  
John stretched, opening his eyes blearily. “Sherlock?” he mumbled.  
“Go back to sleep John,” Sherlock whispered. “I gave the police what they needed to know.”  
John nodded, closing his eyes. “ 'M cold.”  
Sherlock hesitated before wrapping his arms around John and pulling him back against his chest. “Go to sleep.”  
John settled against Sherlock, too tired and cold to notice or care how it looked.  
A few hours later, John woke, still nestled in Sherlock's arms. He scooted away slightly, looking at the sleeping man. It was amazing how peaceful he looked in sleep. Almost childlike and innocent. He almost hated to wake him.  
“Sherlock,” John said, shaking him gently. “Do you still want to go with me?”  
Sherlock was awake immediately. “Of course.”  
John nodded. “I'm going to take a shower and make tea. You're going to eat some toast before we go.”  
“Possibly,” Sherlock conceded.  
“No,” John said, grabbing a change of clothes. “You are going to eat.” He walked out of the room and down the stairs, turning on the kettle before continuing to the bathroom.  
Sherlock heard his mobile chime and picked it up.  
There will be a car to take you to and from the hospital. Give my regards to Dr. Watson.-MH  
Sherlock tapped out a quick 'Fine-SH' before climbing out of the bed.  
True to his word, there was a car waiting for them outside the flat. The short car ride passed largely in silence. When they arrived at the hospital, John was led into a small room, while Sherlock was forced to sit in the waiting room. In the half hour it took for John to answer the preliminary questions, Sherlock had deduced every other person in the room. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Harry and Clara arrived. Sherlock nodded stiffly.  
“Hello to you to,” Harry said, rolling her eyes. “Don't you have a crime scene to be at?”  
“Don't you have a pub to be at?” Sherlock countered.   
“Stop,” Clara said, interrupting them both. “Look, John doesn't need your fighting. He needs your support. That's why you're both here, right? To support John?”  
Sherlock stared at Harry for a moment before nodding. “Apologies.”  
“Sorry,” Harry muttered.  
Clara folded her arms across her chest. “See? Was that really so hard? Neither person answered and Clara rolled her eyes. “Fine. Sit in silence. It's going to be a long hour.”  
“When did you two reconcile?” Sherlock asked, facing Clara. He was at least willing to make small talk.  
“What, you can't deduce that from us?” Harry asked snidely.  
Sherlock scowled. “Of course I can,” he snapped. “You've been together again for roughly two and a half years.”  
Clara nodded quickly. “Very good, Sherlock. Two years, four months.”  
The three settled into a tentative conversation for the next hour, waiting for John to come out. Finally, the door opened and he walked into the waiting room, unsteady on his feet. Sherlock stood immediately and held his arm out for John to take.  
“Thanks,” John murmured, leaning heavily on him.  
Harry looked between John and Sherlock, her face softening. “Hey Johnny,” she said with a small smile. “How're you feeling?”  
“Tired,” he said, his voice betraying just how exhausted he was.  
“Go home, then. Take a nap. Clara and I'll bring supper tonight.”  
John nodded, giving her a one-armed hug. “Thanks, Har.”  
Harry ruffled his hair. “Anything for my baby brother.”  
“Can we go home, Sherlock?” John asked quietly.   
“Yes. Mycroft has a car waiting.” He turned to Harry and Clara. “Call before you come so we know when to expect you.”  
Sherlock led him out to the car and helped him in, sitting beside him.  
“How did the case go?” John asked sleepily.  
“Fine. Lestrade failed to see the obvious, as usual, and I nearly decked Anderson when he--”  
He broke off when he felt a heavy weight on his shoulder. Looking down, he smiled. John was asleep, resting against him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, impulsively kissing the top of his head. “Sleep well, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really though, you guys are seriously amazing, with all your fantastic comments.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SOOOO much for your wonderful comments and kudos and all. Sorry this chapter is so late. School's started picking up and the real world, unfortunately, comes first. I'll try to be better about updating, but I can't make any promises.

John's lumbar puncture was two days later. Sherlock again insisted on being there. They sat in the waiting room while John filled out the necessary paperwork.  
“You're nervous,” Sherlock said quietly.   
“Of course I'm nervous. I'm about to have a needle stuck in my back dangerously close to my spine.”  
“I'll stay with you.”  
A small smile flickered across John's lips. “Yeah. I don't know how your brother did it, but I'm glad you'll be there with me.” He returned the clipboard to the receptionist and sat back down.   
Sherlock took his hand, hoping to reassure him. John didn't pull away. Just the opposite. His hand squeezed Sherlock's tightly and he laced their fingers. They stayed like that, in silence, until the doctor called them back.  
“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. Come in,” the doctor said pleasantly. “Dr. Watson, do you know what's going to happen?”  
John nodded. “Yeah. I sat in on a lumbar puncture in med school.”  
“Right. Good.” He handed a stiff, paper gown to John. I'll give you a moment to change. Everything off but your pants.”  
He pulled the door closed behind him, leaving John and Sherlock alone. John looked up at Sherlock before turning his back to him. Sherlock frowned, slightly disappointed. He had rather wanted to see John's scar. John pulled off his jumper and vest, and Sherlock was intrigued to see that the scar was on the back of his shoulder as well as the front. Bullet went all the way through. John squirmed uncomfortably, stepping out of his jeans. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, staring appreciatively at the sight in front of him. Quickly, John donned the gown, sitting on the exam table. He looked at Sherlock who immediately stared at the ground.  
John frowned. “What? I know it's not the best body, but it's not bad.”  
“That's not it at all,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “You have a...um...very nice body.” Sherlock groaned internally. A very nice body? That was pathetic. It was a pitiful compliment, but he looked up to see John flushing lightly.  
“Thank you,” John murmured, staring at his hands.  
There was a knock on the door and the doctor entered again.  
“Alright, Dr. Watson, I need you to lie down on your side for me.”  
John turned on his side, drawing his knees to his chest. His eyes locked on Sherlock's, betraying the fear in his eyes. Sherlock reached forward, taking his hand. Sterile towels were draped across John's back, leaving only a small area uncovered.   
“This is going to be a bit cold,” the doctor warned.   
He swabbed John's back with alcohol, the strong smell making Sherlock's nose twitch. A local anaesthetic was injected in John's back and the doctor waited for it to take effect.   
“Okay, Dr. Watson, you're going to feel a bit of a sting. That's perfectly normal for this kind of procedure.”   
John nodded, bracing himself. He flinched as he felt the prick of the needle, his hand tightening in Sherlock's. Sherlock watched as the doctor pushed the needle further in, removing the solid core. He attached a small pressure gauge, looking at the readings.   
“Your cerebrospinal fluid pressure looks normal and the fluid isn't bloody. It's a bit cloudy, but that could be for a variety of reasons.”  
He took two vials for testing, waiting patiently as the fluid dripped slowly for the next half hour. “How are you feeling?”  
“My leg's tingling, but that's normal, I know.”  
The doctor nodded. “Perfectly normal. You'll feel a slight pressure now. I'm going to remove the needle.” He continued talking as he slowly pulled the needle from John's back. “You'll need to drink plenty of water over the next two days or so. Some people experience a headache for a day or two. I'm afraid paracetamol and ibuprofen won't help. When you get home, I'd lie flat on your back for the next few hours.”  
The doctor quickly placed a thick piece of sterile gauze where the needle had been, taping it in place.  
“Alright. You're all done. You can get dressed and be on your way. Dr. Green will discuss your results during your next appointment.”  
John nodded. “Thank you.”  
The doctor left, closing the door behind him. Swinging his legs off the table, John winced. Muscle pain. Bit sharp. He'd definitely feel it later.  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Are you okay, John?”  
“ 'M fine. Little sore. Hand me my clothes?”  
Sherlock passed his clothes over and John dropped the gown to his waist, trying in vain to put his vest back on. His back hurt too much. Sherlock stood and walked over to him, taking the shirt from him. His eyes locked on John's scar, wanting to reach out and touch it. John saw it and flushed.  
“I know. It's not...” he started.  
“It's intriguing. I want to touch it,” Sherlock said quietly.   
John nodded. “Okay. When we get him, I'll let you.”  
Sherlock blinked. Certainly that was on the list of things that were a bit not good. “Are you sure?” he asked.  
“I don't see why not,” John shrugged. “You wouldn't be the first people to touch it. Most people are disgusted by it.” It had turned away more than one potential girlfriend.  
“I'm not most people. I think it's interesting,” Sherlock said, helping him into his jumper.   
“I think I can get this part,” John said, taking his jeans. He stood, wincing in pain. As he bent to put them on, he bit back a low groan. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the jeans.  
“Just let me. You're going to hurt yourself.”  
John sighed. “Sherlock, please...”  
“No. Let me.” He helped John into his jeans, pulling them up to his hips. “There. I think you can get the rest.”  
John nodded, clearing his throat as he buttoned his jeans. “Thanks.”  
“You're welcome. Mycroft should have a car waiting for us outside. You should lie down when we get home.”  
Rolling his eyes, John took Sherlock's hand. “Thank you Doctor Holmes,” he said dryly. When Sherlock looked over, he was relieved to see that John was smiling. Sherlock led him outside and to the car, helping him inside.  
“Is it bad that I'm tired again?” John asked, closing his eyes.  
Sherlock pulled him against his shoulder. “Not at all. Just sleep, John. I'll wake you up when we get back home.”  
John nodded against Sherlock's shoulder. “Thank you.”  
Sherlock held him protectively during the ride home, tracing random patterns on his skin. He didn't wake him the instant they got home, wanting him to sleep for as long as he needed. However, the driver finally cleared his throat and Sherlock reluctantly shook him gently.  
“John, wake up. We're home.”  
John grunted, shifting against him.   
“John...I can't carry you.” He would have, if possible.  
Sighing, John opened his eyes. “I know.” He sat upright, waiting for Sherlock to open the door.  
Sherlock helped him out of the car and into the flat. When he saw that John was struggling just to make it up the steps to the first floor, he changed their course, leading him into the main floor instead of to his room.  
“What are you doing?” John asked, frowning.  
“You can't make it to your own room. I'm taking you to mine,” Sherlock said simply.  
John sighed. “Sherlock, I'm fine.” However, he stumbled a bit.  
“No you're not. Your back already hurts and you've a headache coming on. I can tell by your eyes and the lines between your eyebrows. They always get deeper when you have a headache.”  
“Fine. Is your room at least clean?”  
“Of course it's clean. All my experiments are in the kitchen and I don't have any other, questionable materials in there.” He doesn't mention the fact that John's seen Sherlock's bedroom before and it was perfectly clean.  
He led John through the sitting room and into his bedroom, easing him down onto the bed. Pulling off John's shoes and socks, stared up at John, wondering how to ask. Finally, he cleared his throat.   
“John, you said when we got home I could see.”  
John opened his eyes and searched his brain frantically for what Sherlock was talking about before remembering. “Oh. Right. Yeah. You want to see my scar.”  
Sherlock nodded. “If that's still alright with you.”  
“It's fine, Sherlock. Help me out of my jumper?”  
Sherlock nodded, pulling the jumper up John's torso. His vest came with it revealing a large expanse of tan, muscled skin. Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation to touch it, running his hands over John's stomach.   
"What are you doing?" John asked, frowning slightly.  
Sherlock flushed, looking away. "Sorry. I didn't mean to..."  
"It's okay, just, help me with my shirt." John's brow furrowed. He couldn't figure out why Sherlock was touching him. Sherlock didn't like to touch people. Or people touching him. It didn't make sense for him to be willingly touching John. Especially somewhere so...relatively intimate as his stomach.   
Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled John's arms out of the jumper, one at a time. He pulled both jumper and vest over John's head and dropped them to the floor, staring at the scar. It was a large, starburst shaped scar, on his left shoulder.   
"It went all the way through," he murmured. "You stitched this yourself, until you could be properly stitched up. It got infected and they had to do surgery on you."  
John nodded. "Yeah. All of it. You're right."  
"What happened? How did you get shot?"  
"Mate of mine and I were taking medical supplies to a village. We got shot at and he got hit first. I pulled off the side of the road to try to get the bullet out. They came up and shot us both. Him in the head, me in the shoulder. I drove before they could shoot me again, or doubtless I wouldn't have made it back."  
"Then I'm very glad you drove," Sherlock said quietly. "Your friend...what happened to him?"  
John looked at the sheets. "I was too late to save him," he murmured. "He had a wife and a three month old son at home. I had to tell them that I couldn't save him."  
"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock assured him.  
John smiled up at him grimly. "Wasn't it? If I had waited to pull over...If I had waited until we were at the village...I could have saved him."  
"John, stop," Sherlock said firmly.  
"Y'know, sometimes I wonder if this isn't some form of karma. I couldn't save him and this is my penitence."  
"John," Sherlock whispered. "Stop it. You couldn't save him. That doesn't mean you deserve this. You don't. You don't deserve what's happening."  
John stared up at him, his eyes tired. "How do you know?"  
"Because you're a good person. You've saved so many people. Even you know you can't save them all."  
"I could have saved him."  
Sherlock sighed, stretching out on the bed beside John. "It's not your fault. His wife, when you met her. Did she blame you?"  
"No," John said quietly.  
"Then stop blaming yourself. It wasn't your fault and this isn't some sick form of karma. Karma doesn't exist, and it certainly wouldn't be for a man like you. You're good and kind."  
John sighed, nodding. "Alright. Doesn't mean I believe you, but I'm too tired to argue.”  
"Go to sleep then, John. It'll help if you're asleep when your headache hits."  
John's eyes closed. "Back hurts," he murmured.   
"Here, let me do something for you." Sherlock rolled him onto his stomach, rubbing small circles on John's lower back. He was rewarded with a low, satisfied groan.  
"That feels nice. Keep doing that."  
Sherlock smiled and continued his motions, not stopping even after John had fallen asleep and was snoring lightly. Leaning forward, he pressed a gentle kiss to the scar. "Sleep well, John. You were wrong, though. It's not disgusting. It's absolutely beautiful."


	7. Chapter 7

They decided to tell Molly and Greg the evening after John's next doctor's appointment. John called them, apologising to Greg for missing their Friday night at the pub. Again, Mycroft had a car waiting for them.  
“He does know we could just take a cab, right?” John asked, shifting uncomfortably.   
“Mycroft is essentially paying me back for every stupid, dull government case I took for him,” Sherlock said.  
John frowned. “Paying you back? You're not the one--”  
“You mean...a great deal to me,” Sherlock said, looking at the floor.   
They both thought of the days preceding his fall, when Sherlock had asked why John cared so much about what people thought about him. What John hadn't said, but meant, was was 'because I care about you.' The unasked question now was 'Why do you care so much about my treatment?' The answer was the same.

“I have the results of your MRI and your lumbar puncture,” Dr. Green said, referencing some papers. “It doesn't look like the leukaemia cells have reached your cerebrospinal fluid. That's very good. It increases your chances of the chemotherapy working.”  
Both men smiled, visibly relieved. “Good,” John said, his hand tight in Sherlock's. “Do you know what the subtype is?”  
“Pre-T acute lymphoblastic leukaemia,” Dr. Green answered.  
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked, staring intently at the doctor.  
Dr. Green sighed. “The fact that it's pre-T means his chances of the chemo working are slightly less than if it would have been pre-B or B type. This kind of leukaemia is fairly rare. Only about five to ten percent of all cases are pre-T.” Sherlock tensed at that, but the doctor continued. “There are several other factors that can influence how effective the treatment is. Age, overall health, the fact that the cancer hasn't reached his spinal fluid—all of those are in his favour.”  
What are the numbers?” Sherlock pressed. “How likely is he to be cured after this?”  
“Sherlock,” John murmured, placing his free hand on Sherlock's arm.  
“It's okay, John. Better to be well informed,” Dr. Green said. “With the information we have now, and knowing the kind of chemo you're going to be on, you have a seventy percent chance of it going into remission. If you're in remission for a year, you'll have a sixty two percent chance of being completely cured.”  
John nodded. He knew the overall statistics for acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, and they weren't good. Thirty to forty percent chance his cancer would go away completely.  
“How likely is it to come back?” Sherlock asked. “Not giving it a year, how likely is it that the cancer will come back?”  
Dr. Green pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fifty five to sixty percent chance,” he said with a sigh.  
Sherlock's insides froze. There was a very large chance that John's cancer would come back. That wasn't okay. That wasn't acceptable. John took his hand, squeezing lightly in reassurance.   
“We've decided to try you on a combination of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. You know that you'll have to have a port put in, yes?”  
John nodded. “This week?”  
“We've scheduled your appointment for Wednesday. It'll be a minor surgery, outpatient, and then we can start chemo next week.”

The ride home was tense and silent, neither man looking at the other. When they got to the flat, John wordlessly pulled Sherlock into a hug, holding him against his chest. Sherlock stiffened at first, but soon relaxed. He held John tightly, fingers clutching at the back of John's jumper. Both silently comforted each other until they heard the bell ring.  
John cleared his throat. “That'll be Greg and Molly.  
Sherlock nodded. “Mrs. Hudson will get it.”  
“I still need to put the fettuccine in the oven.”  
Reluctantly, Sherlock let go of him, sitting on the sofa as the Lestrades came up the stairs, Greg supporting Molly's back. John walked out of the kitchen, hugging each of them.  
“Congratulations,” he said, a genuine smile on his face. “How far along are you?”  
Molly's hand rested on the slight swell of her stomach. “Four and a half months. We'll find out what little Peanut is soon.”  
Sherlock looked between them as they spoke, wondering how John could be so calm and cheerful. John shot him a sympathetic look, telling him he understood.  
“So which are you hoping for? Boy or girl?”  
“Boy,” they both said at the same time. Laughing slightly, Greg put his arm around Molly's waist. “We figure, we've already got Rebecca and Emma. I need a boy to kick around a football with,” he said with a grin.  
John chuckled a bit at that. “Very true.”  
“Maybe you can join us,” Greg said with a smile.  
John's grin faded. “Um, we...need to talk about that, actually. Because we have some news too. Sherlock and I.”  
Molly beamed. “Oh congratulations! I knew you two would finally figure it out!”  
John looked confused, while Sherlock was horrified. John wasn't supposed to find out like this. They were supposed to be able to talk about it.  
“I don't know what you're thinking, Molly, but I assure you, you're wrong,” Sherlock said stiffly.  
Molly blinked, hurt and confused. “But...I thought...”  
Greg's arm tightened around her waist. “It's okay, sweetheart.” He shot Sherlock an angry look. Watch what you say to my wife.  
“Greg, Molly, sit down,” John said with a sigh. “Sherlock, move. Let them sit on the sofa.”  
Sherlock nodded and stood, moving to his chair. John took his own seat, staring at Greg and Molly. “I was going to wait until after supper, but I suppose now is as good a time as any.” He sighed. This was the first time he was going to say it out loud. “I have leukaemia.”  
The effect was instantaneous. Greg's eyes widened and Molly clapped a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes.  
“God, mate, I'm so sorry.”  
“John—When did you--” She broke off, tears spilling down her cheeks.  
“Two weeks ago. That's why I've not been at crime scenes with Sherlock and why I missed Friday night at the pub.”  
Greg shook his head. “Don't worry about it. So...what's the plan.”  
“I'll have a port put in on Wednesday and if everything goes well, I'll start chemo next week.” It was easier, talking about the process. He could almost act like it was someone else going through it and not himself.  
“So soon?” Greg asked.   
John nodded. “It's aggressive. They have to start as soon as possible. The first two rounds of chemo will last about a year.”  
“I'm so sorry. If there's anything we can do,” Molly said gently. “Any thing at all...”  
“Just take care of yourself. I'll let you know if there's anything you can do.”  
“At least let us bring food.”  
Sherlock scowled. “I'm perfectly capable of cooking.”  
Greg laughed. “You burned the toast the last time I was here.”  
Sherlock looked to John for approval. “It was—ah—it was good, Sherlock,” he assured him.  
“I'll make sure you're well fed,” Molly said with a knowing look. “Between me and Mrs. Hudson, you'll not go hungry.”  
Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “Speaking of food, John get the fettuccine.”  
Greg and Molly looked at Sherlock in a mixture of anger and disbelief, but John just grinned. “Yeah, alright.”  
“Are you honestly making him fix dinner?” Greg asked incredulously.  
“He doesn't want things to change. I did offer, but he wouldn't let me.”  
Greg sighed. “Yeah, okay. The offer goes for you, too. If you need anything, just let us know.”  
Sherlock looked over at Molly. “He doesn't know. I have a feeling he has some suspicion, but he hasn't realised it yet.”  
Molly nodded, flushing slightly. “I just thought you two had figured it out.”  
“Figured what out?” Greg asked, looking between the two of them and feeling slightly left out.  
Molly looked to Sherlock, who shook his head. “I'll tell you later, sweetie,” she said quietly.  
Supper was a relatively quiet affair, Molly and Greg not knowing what to say. The conversation centred largely on their lives, their elopement, and Molly's pregnancy. After supper, Greg and Molly left quickly, excusing themselves and telling John to get some rest. As John closed the door behind them, he sighed.   
“Well, that could have gone better,” he said, collapsing into his chair.  
“It went as expected. How else would you expect them to react? They're two of your best friends.”  
John nodded. “I guess. What did Molly mean, though? Why did she congratulate us?”  
“I have no idea,” Sherlock said, shaking his head.   
Raising an eyebrow, John crossed his arms. “You're hiding something. I can feel it.”  
“Am I?” Sherlock challenged.  
“Yes.” He held Sherlock's gaze for a while. “Fine, then. Keep your secret. I'll find out eventually.”  
Sherlock sighed, relieved that John didn't press further.   
“Come to bed. I'll take care of the dishes tomorrow,” he said, resigned.   
Nodding, Sherlock followed him to the bedroom. John had moved down to Sherlock's bedroom, as it was too much work to climb the stairs to his own. The two were silent as they got ready for bed, and when John flipped the light off, he didn't go to sleep. Instead, he thought about Sherlock's actions over the past few weeks. They weren't the actions of a friend. More the actions of a...oh. John's eyes widened, and he rolled to his side, facing a sleeping Sherlock. Partner. Those were the actions of a partner. Sherlock was in his bed. Or rather, he was in Sherlock's. The hand holding, the breakfast, the small touches, and especially this. It all made sense now.   
“Sherlock, I really didn't need a sexuality crisis now,” he whispered, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear him.   
Sherlock just shifted in his sleep, moving closer to John. Sighing, John ran a hand through his hair and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. “Yeah, okay. Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	8. Chapter 8

John didn't get a chance to talk to Sherlock before he had his port put in. Word had gotten out about John's illness and people had been in and out of Baker Street, bringing food and flowers. The flowers had been dissected by Sherlock and then thrown away, much to the annoyance of John.  
The surgery to place the port took only a little more than an hour, and John was able to go home the same day. They barely made it inside before John stumbled to the bathroom and heaved the contents of his stomach, not quite aiming into the toilet. Sherlock merely sighed and wet a flannel, placing it on the back of John's neck.  
“Sorry,” John mumbled, spitting into the toilet.  
Sherlock shook his head. “Don't be. You can't help it. It's just the effects of the anaesthesia wearing off.”  
John's stomach churned again and he hung his head over the toilet bowl, his entire body shaking. After a few more moments, the nausea faded and John was left completely drained of energy.  
“Come on,” Sherlock murmured. He took the flannel and wiped John's mouth. “Let's get you into bed, shall we?”  
Helping him to his feet, Sherlock practically carried him to the bed, pulling the duvet over him.  
“Stay here. I'll get you a bin.”  
Sherlock placed the bin beside the bed, allowing John to reach it easily, and started to leave, but John stopped him before he made it out the door.  
“Will you stay with me?” he asked hoarsely.  
Sherlock nodded, sliding into the bed beside him.  
“Now I match,” John said, his voice slightly slurred from the pain medicine.  
“What do you mean, you match?” Sherlock frowned.  
“Scars. Got 'em on both shoulders now.”  
Sherlock sighed, going to pull him close, but John leaned over the bed, vomiting into the bin. So instead, Sherlock scooted over, giving him the space he needed. After a few minutes, John's breathing evened out and Sherlock slipped out of bed, cleaning the bathroom. He rinsed the flannel and placed it on the table beside John. Grabbing John's laptop, he settled back into the bed, one hand resting in John's hair as he researched the first two types of chemo John would be on.  
The next morning, John woke in excruciating pain and alone. He tried to move his arm to find that even the slightest movement made his entire upper right side feel like it was on fire. He licked his lips, his throat sore from the night before.  
“Medicine,” he rasped.  
Sherlock appeared in the doorway with the painkillers John had been prescribed. “Here. Take these. I'll be in with breakfast in a bit. Mrs. Hudson made muffins, so no burned toast and cold beans.”  
“Not hungry.”  
“And I don't care. You need to eat breakfast. They're blueberry. And I made tea. Just the way you like.”  
John sighed. “I don't want--”  
“But you need it. No medicine until after you've eaten. You're a doctor. You know how important it is to eat before taking medicine.”  
“Shut up,” John muttered. “Give me the damn pills.”  
“No,” Sherlock said firmly. He left the room and returned with a muffin and tea. “Eat this or you don't get your medicine.”  
John glared at him as he took the muffin and bit down hard. “Happy?” he asked, his mouth full.  
“I will be once you eat the entire thing.”  
Scowling, John ate the rest of the muffin, sipping at his tea. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that it was good. “Can I have my medicine now?”  
Sherlock nodded and handed over the pills. John took them gratefully, swallowing them with his tea.  
“Will you stay with me? If you're busy I understand, but--”  
“Of course I'll stay,” Sherlock said, sliding back into the bed.   
John was silent for a moment and then turned to face Sherlock. “If I ask you a question will you answer honestly?”  
Sherlock hesitated. “Yes.”  
“You...you've been acting differently around me.”  
“That's not a question.”  
John rolled his eyes. “I wasn't done. You've been acting different. More...affectionate. You don't go too far away from me for long periods of time, you fix me food, you go with me to my appointments, you sleep in the bed with me...”  
Sherlock swallowed hard. “That's still not a question.”  
“Dammit, Sherlock. Do you...do you care about me?”  
“You know that I do,” Sherlock said evenly.  
John took a deep breath. “As more than a friend?”  
Sherlock remained silent, refusing to look at John.  
“Sherlock, please answer the question.”  
“You're straight.”  
John nodded. “Yeah, and you're asexual.”  
“No. I believe the proper term is demisexual.”  
“Oh.” John swallowed hard. “And have you ever found someone you were attracted to?” He knew Sherlock would have had to have a very strong emotional connection to him or her.  
“Twice. Once during uni, but nothing came of it.”  
“And the other?” He thought he already knew the answer.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be dense, John.”  
“I need to hear you say it.”  
“Why?” Sherlock asked quietly. “You're straight.”  
John sighed. “Have you ever heard of the Kinsey scale?”  
Sherlock shook his head.   
“It's a scale of sexual attraction. Zeroes are purely heterosexual and sixes are completely homosexual.”  
“Does this information have a point?” Sherlock asked.  
John rolled his eyes. “I'm getting there. I always thought I was a zero. Never been attracted to a man before. But over the past few days, I've realised that I'm actually more a one.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“I'm not gay,” John said honestly. “I'm not even bisexual. But I'm not as straight as I thought I was.”  
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked again, this time quieter.  
“You never answered my question.”  
“And you're not answering mine.”  
“I asked first.”  
Sherlock scowled. “What are you, twelve?”  
“You're never going to say it, are you?” He sighed. “Just...is it because I'm sick?”  
Sherlock looked horrified. “How could you think that?”  
“You only started acting differently after I found out,” John said with a shrug.  
“Because I didn't know how to act!”  
John paused. “So...the things you did...those weren't subtle hints that you wanted to be a couple?”  
“No,” Sherlock said honestly. “I did them to comfort the person I care about. Forgive me if I went about it in the wrong way.”  
“You didn't. They were comforting. I was just confused.” He hesitated. “Do you want to be a couple?”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is this really the best time to be having this conversation? You need to focus on getting better. On treatment. I do promise I'll stay with you through--”  
“Sherlock I might not get a later time to talk about it.” Sherlock's mouth opened to speak, but John stopped him. “I know you don't want to think about that, bit it's the truth and there's nothing either one of us can do about it.”  
Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded. “I'm not certain what to say. One one hand, yes. I would...like to be a couple, although I despise the term boyfriend. On the other, there are certain things that are expected in a relationship. Things I'm not sure I can give and things you're going to be too...weak to want.”  
John stared at him for quite a long time before speaking. “Sherlock, are you a virgin?”  
“You've been around me too long, John,” Sherlock said, smiling humourlessly. “Your tact is quite lacking.”  
“Sherlock, you're my best friend. And you—we're—talking about a relationship. I would like to think we're close enough to talk about sex without it being too invasive and personal.”  
He was silent for quite a while, and then he nodded. “Yes, I'm...I've never had a sexual relationship with anyone.”  
“Okay. That's fine. I told you at the very beginning, during our first dinner together.”  
“I know it's fine. Why wouldn't be. It's all transport.”  
John pursed his lips. “The part of you that wants to be in a relationship with me, does it want me? Do you want me? Sexually?”  
“I know what you meant, John. You didn't have to keep expounding,” Sherlock scowled. Sighing, he answered. “I don't know. I think I might.”  
“Can I try something to see?”  
“Sherlock nodded slowly. “What are you going to try?”  
“I would like to kiss you. Have you ever been kissed before?”  
“Once. It wasn't incredibly pleasant.” He paused. “Can you clean your teeth first? I'm sorry, it's just, you vomited quite a bit.”  
John nodded. “Yeah. Understandable. Oh, and thanks for taking care of me last night and this morning.”  
He gave Sherlock a small smile and climbed out of the bed, heading to the loo. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. He hadn't wanted John to find out. At all. However, John hadn't shied away, or been disgusted. He had been understanding, and possibly even returned the sentiment. John returned to the bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed. He looked up at Sherlock and slowly moved closer, past the point where his personal space began. Reaching up, John cupped Sherlock's cheek, his lips ghosting across Sherlock's before pressing a bit more firmly. After a moment, he pulled away, looking up at Sherlock expectantly.   
“What?” Sherlock asked.  
“How did you like it? Did you feel anything?”  
Sherlock was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “I think I did.”  
“What did it feel like?” John asked patiently.  
“Warm, kind of. And nice. Comforting.”  
“Did it help answer my question?”   
Sherlock nodded slowly. “Yes. The answer is yes. I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I cut off at a terrible place! Feel free to hate me, but I bet you'll stay tuned in for the next chapter so HAH! Kidding. That's not why I did it. I did it because I tried to add to it and it really wasn't turning out the way I wanted.


	9. Chapter 9

Over the next few days, the kisses and touches increased, as did John's apprehension about his impending first chemo treatment. It wasn't uncommon for John to kiss Sherlock on the cheek while he was making dinner, or slip an arm around Sherlock's waist. One evening, John fell asleep on Sherlock's chest while they were both reclining on the sofa. Sherlock smiled down at him and stroked John's hair, holding him protectively, as though he could keep John safe from the cancer, just by holding him.  
Two days before his first chemo treatment, he had another appointment. The doctor checked to make sure his port was healing properly and went over John's latest bloodwork with them. He noted that John and Sherlock sat a bit closer and seemed more...affectionate, but remained silent. At the end of the appointment, Dr. Green told John what to expect during and after his first treatment. John nodded, listening in silence.   
During the ride home, John remained quiet, only answering the questions Sherlock asked. He stared at the window, not touching Sherlock. When they arrived back at the flat, John darted from the cab, racing inside. Sherlock followed him inside, quickly tossing a few bills through the window. He found John on the sofa, curled onto his side.  
“John,” Sherlock said quietly. “Are you all right?”  
John huffed out a laugh. “I have chemo in two days and you're asking if I'm all right?”  
Sherlock sighed, resting his head on the cushion. “No. You're right. I'm sorry.”  
That...was a shock. Sherlock never apologised. John shook his head. “Don't be. I shouldn't have said that. I'm just...worried and stressed and more than a bit scared.  
“What do you need?” Sherlock asked. He would do anything that John asked of him, he knew.  
John looked at the floor, embarrassed to ask for the comfort he needed.  
“John, just ask me for it and I'll do whatever it is you need me to.”  
John mumbled something unintelligible and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I said...could you hold me?”  
That took Sherlock completely by surprise. “Of course.” He climbed onto the sofa beside John and allowed John to turn in his arms and bury his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Leaning up, he captured Sherlock's lips in a deep kiss. Sherlock frowned and pulled away. “John, what...”  
“I need this. Please, just give me one night where I can pretend I'm not sick,” John plead quietly.  
Sherlock looked uncertain, his eyes on the floor. He didn't know where to start. One part of him wanted to give John this one night. They were...something more than friends, and Sherlock figured the nature of their relationship made this okay. On the other hand, this could have just been because John was going to be going through chemo. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was completely inexperienced with this business.   
“I don't know,” Sherlock murmured. “Why do you want this? Tell me why you need this.”  
John looked up at him, completely vulnerable. “I need a night with just you. A night before I start this process where I can just be John and you can just be Sherlock and we can pretend that I don't have this sickness.”  
Sherlock was silent for quite a while, considering whether or not he should say yes. If there would be anyone he would want this with, it would be John. John was the only one he could trust enough to be this intimate with.  
“I don't know how,” he said quietly. “I've never...done this before.”   
John nodded. “I know you haven't,” he murmured, nestling into Sherlock. “I could teach you if you wanted.”  
“How do you teach that?” Sherlock asked.  
“Do you trust me?”  
Sherlock nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “Yes.”   
John slowly pulled Sherlock's shirt from his trousers, running his hands under the shirt and tracing Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shivered, his eyes closing. That felt quite wonderful. Better than he thought it would be. He found himself arching into the touch, his eyes closing. John smiled at the expression on Sherlock's face. He looked so relaxed. So at ease. John could already tell that Sherlock would be a very quick study and learn to reciprocate those touches. Leaning down, John kissed him gently, the kiss combined with the touch eliciting a small groan of pleasure from Sherlock. John eased Sherlock's shirt off, dropping it to the floor. Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally, but John kept going, his hands grasping the hem to his own jumper.   
“Wait,” Sherlock murmured. “Let me.”  
John's hands stilled and Sherlock moved them aside, pulling off the jumper. His gaze went directly to the scar and John squirmed underneath the stare. Wordlessly, Sherlock leaned forward, brushing his fingers along the web of thick, marred skin.  
“Sherlock,” John breathed, his voice slightly shaky. “Why?”  
Blinking, Sherlock pulled away. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.”  
“You didn't,” John said, shaking his head. “It's just...there are so many other places you could touch me. You could touch anywhere. Why there? It's ugly.”  
Sherlock shook his head. “No it isn't. It's a mark of bravery and courage, and it brought you to me.”  
He leaned down, pressing his lips to the scar. John's eyes widened in surprise. This touch was so different than the clinical ones Sherlock usually used. He needed to take Sherlock to bed. Wanted to be near him. However, he didn't want to rush things where Sherlock was concerned. Backing away slowly, John took both of Sherlock's hands in his.   
“Come with me,” he said quietly. “Come to bed with me, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock nodded slowly and allowed himself to be pulled up by John. Rather than going to his own room, John led Sherlock through the kitchen. Doing this in Sherlock's bedroom would give him at least one familiar thing to hold onto, and he knew that was important to Sherlock. Closing the door behind then, he walked Sherlock over to the bed and eased him down onto it. John kept Sherlock's gaze as he undid the flies of his jeans, pushing them down to the floor. As not to spook Sherlock, he left his pants on.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I may be a virgin, but I have seen naked men before,” he said with a huff.  
John let out a laugh, all the tension draining from his body. Of course, Sherlock would be very...Sherlock about this. Dropping his pants to the floor, he walked over to the bed and climbed in beside Sherlock.  
“Okay. I've shown you mine.”  
Unbuttoning his trousers, Sherlock tugged down both them and his pants. “And I've shown you mine,” he said quietly.   
John's breath hitched as he took in the sight of Sherlock's body. He looked like a Greek statue, although he was much larger in...some areas.  
“You have a beautiful body, Sherlock,” John said, his voice lower than normal. “Can I touch you?”   
Sherlock nodded slowly, not quite meeting John's eyes. Seeing this, John paused.  
“Sherlock, you know you don't have to do this. We can just take a nap.”  
“What are you expecting? I know there are several ways to achieve orgasm. Which way are we doing?”  
John flushed at that. He hadn't expected Sherlock to be so straight forward. “I was...just planning on giving you a hand job.”  
He nearly laughed at Sherlock's confusion. For being so forthright, he didn't know any of the terms.  
“I'm going to use my hand. Like a wank, but I'll do it instead of you.” Sherlock looked away and John sighed. “Have you never wanked before?” John asked gently.  
“I tried a few times as a young teenager. My attempts were futile, to say the least.”  
“Maybe you just needed the right stimulation,” John said. He moved so that his body was partially covering Sherlock's, and kissed him deeply.   
Running his hands along Sherlock's torso, he slowly worked his way downward, until he ran his palm over Sherlock's groin. Sherlock let out a surprised gasp, arching up against the hand.  
“Easy,” John soothed. “Just feel.”  
Wrapping his fingers around the shaft, John worked in long, steady strokes, pulling Sherlock's foreskin up past the head, and then pushing it back. Sherlock groaned and writhed underneath John, his cock slowly getting hard. As he stroked Sherlock, John moved against him, rutting against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock was confused. One part of him thought this felt amazing. The other wondered why John wasn't allowing him to reciprocate. Each time he tried, John would knock his hand away. Finally, Sherlock pulled back.  
“Why can't I help you?” he asked, looking down. “I want to touch you like you're touching me.”   
John paused. He hadn't considered that Sherlock had actually wanted to touch him. He thought it was out of some sort of misplaced obligation.  
“Let me show you.” He took Sherlock's hand and wrapped Sherlock's fingers around his own cock. “Tighten your hand a bi—not that much. Now then. That's better. Breath. Move in steady strokes.”   
His hand moved with Sherlock's, up and down the shaft. Letting out a groan, he helped Sherlock set a steady, firm rhythm. Once Sherlock had found his rhythm, John let go of his hand and let him keep going. The hand he had used to guide Sherlock went down to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm. Sherlock yelped, the noise quickly turning into a groan of pleasure. Learning quickly, Sherlock mirrored John's movements, trying to give him the same pleasure Sherlock was receiving. John knew before Sherlock did that the other man was close to orgasm. His entire body tightened and John brushed his thumb over the sensitive head, smearing precome down Sherlock's shaft as he stroked, using it as a lubricant to make the slide easier. Sherlock made a slightly strangled noise, his muscles seizing up as he spilled onto John's hand. His own hand fell away from John's cock and he collapsed boneless on the bed.  
Sensing that he would get no more stimulation from Sherlock, John took over, stroking himself to completion using the hand he had wanked Sherlock with. His own release joined Sherlock's on his hand and he lay on the bed beside Sherlock. Grabbing a tissue, he rolled over to face Sherlock, cleaning off his hand.   
“Was that okay?” he asked.  
Sherlock didn't say anything. John's eyes narrowed and he shook Sherlock's shoulder.  
“Hold on,” Sherlock murmured. “I'm processing.”   
Five minutes later, Sherlock nodded, rolling over to face John. His eyes were bright, his face flushed, and his lips were swollen from kissing. John had never seen anyone so beautiful, so soon after sex.  
“That was intense,” Sherlock said finally. “I didn't know it would be like that.”  
John smiled. His lovely Sherlock. “That was just a hand job. Imagine actually having sex.”  
“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not right now. I'm exhausted after that.”  
John pulled the covers up over them, curling up against Sherlock's side. They could take a nap after all. As he drifted off to sleep, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock. “Love you, Sherlock,” he whispered. Sherlock didn't answer. He was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I've not given up on the fic! It's just college and papers and this month is NaNoWriMo and I have a fifteen page research paper due at the end of the month. I'm kind of stressing out a bit about it. So I can't promise the next chapter this month, but it WILL be posted. I've gotten too many lovely comments to give up on our boys.


	10. Chapter 10

“Sherlock, go sit over there while I check in.”  
Sherlock stared at all the people in the waiting room. It was crowded and people were reading insipid periodicals and watching boring programmes. However, John had requested it, and if it eased his mind, Sherlock would do it. Walking over to a table, he sat, pouring a cup of the complimentary sludge they tried to pass off as coffee. John joined him a few moments later.  
“I told you that you didn't have to stay,” he said, sitting down beside Sherlock. “It's going to be three hours. You'll be bored out of your mind. Honestly. Mycroft could have just sent a car.”  
“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “I'm staying with you through the treatment.”  
John's reply was cut off by the nurse, who stuck her head out from behind the door and into the waiting room, calling John's name. John stood up, looking back at Sherlock.  
“They're just going to do a quick check of everything and then I'll go back for the treatment,” he explained.  
They had gone over this the evening prior, so Sherlock would know what to expect. He shook his head when Sherlock's eyes lit up.  
“Not today, Sherlock. Perhaps later, you can come watch.”  
This had been another discussion point. Fascinated, Sherlock had asked if he could go back with John to watch the entire process. Technically, not even family was allowed back in the exam room. It was different with the treatment room, but he didn't want Sherlock to come back and see him like that. It was bad enough that Sherlock was going to see the after effects of the treatment.   
After a quick check up, the nurse led him to the treatment room. It was large and lined with windows to allow the sunlight to come in. There were large, stuffed chairs along the walls, with IV poles by their sides. At the front of the room, there was a large desk. Three nurses sat behind it, working. John smiled as he saw (and heard) that one was singing along with one of the tunes coming from the radio.   
The nurse had just hooked the IV up to his port when the door opened and Sherlock strode over.   
“I saw people coming through this door, so I thought I should use it.”  
Fascinated, he sat down, watching the drug course through the IV and into the port. However, he made no attempt to touch it.   
“Sherlock, I told you to wait outside,” he said with a sigh. “Those people are just visiting. You can't stay here the entire time. The amount of chemicals in the room isn't healthy.”  
That, of course, was a fair load of crap.   
Sherlock crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed. “You're telling me that it isn't safe for me to be back here because it's not healthy, but you're back here? That doesn't make sense.”  
Of course. Trust Sherlock to bring that up. “It's different for me. It's...this is to help me get better. You know the chemo helps me get better, but it's going to make me sick. It's going to make the cancer go away.”  
The nurse walked up to them then, smiling brightly. “Mr. Watson, would you like a snack or drink?”  
“Doctor,” Sherlock muttered.   
“Excuse me?”  
Dammit, Sherlock, not now. “It's nothing,” John said quickly.  
“John is a doctor. He served in Afghanistan,” Sherlock said, his arms crossed.  
“It's fine,” John said immediately. “Really. Yes, I'm a doctor, but in public, calling me Mr. Watson is more than fine.” He shot Sherlock a look that said 'we'll talk about this later.' “As far as a drink goes, Coke would be fine if you have it. If not, water is fine.”  
The nurse gave him a faltering smile and left. John turned to Sherlock, a furious expression on his face.  
“What the hell, Sherlock? She's my nurse! She's not going to know every detail of my life. You don't have to grill her because she didn't call me Dr. Watson.”   
“Excuse me for wanting you to get the respect you deserve. You're a doctor. And no one seems to want to acknowledge that,” Sherlock snapped.  
“They don't know! This is the first time I've met these people. You can hardly expect them to know my entire life story. They're not you,” John hissed, wanting to get his point across, but not wanting to yell in the middle of the treatment room. That would hardly do, and would probably result in getting Sherlock kicked out. He hardly wanted that.   
The nurse walked back over with a can of soda. “Thank you...” He looked at her name tag. “Amy.” Taking the can of soda, he smiled warmly at her. He took a drink, the crisp beverage cooling his throat. Looking over at Sherlock, he raised both eyebrows as if to say 'See? Manners.'  
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, crossing his arms again. Amy the Nurse retreated, giving them privacy.  
“Honestly, Sherlock, what are you doing back here? I told you to wait in the front. They call it a waiting room for a reason,” John said dryly.  
“You wanted me to sit in that room and not deduce the people sitting out there? Th wife of the man sitting two chairs away from you is—“  
John clapped his hand over Sherlock's mouth, effectively muffling most of his words. “A very nice woman, I'm sure,” he said lowly, glaring at Sherlock. Don't you dare, Sherlock Holmes. I will make you leave.  
Sherlock nodded slowly in understanding, peeling John's fingers from his mouth. “Incredibly nice,” he said, his teeth ground. And nice to every single man in the waiting room. And married man. And some women.  
Pulling Sherlock close so he could whisper into Sherlock's ear, he murmured, “Wait until we get home. You can tell me all your deductions you made. You can keep a notebook, if you like. Write them down instead of spouting them off. You'll be much less likely to get punched, and I can't exactly help you right now.”  
That made Sherlock feel guilty, an emotion he didn't like, nor was he familiar with. “Okay, “ he said quietly.  
“Now then, go sit down in the waiting room. You can send me texts until I get out.”   
It was almost like having to take care of a child, though as they had seen the night before, he most certainly was not a child. Remembering what had happened, he shivered, his eyes growing dark with want.   
Seeing the change in John, Sherlock frowned. “Are you all right?”  
John snapped out of his thoughts, nodding. “Fine. Yeah. Completely fine. Just fine.”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You're fine, are you?”  
“Oh shut up,” John said, rolling his eyes. “If you must know, I was thinking about the two of us.” Sherlock's blank face told him he hadn't gotten his point across. “Together. Last night.”  
With that, Sherlock's other eyebrow raised. “Oh. I didn't know it was thought about after.”  
John cleared his throat loudly. “We'll talk about it later, Sherlock. Go back to the waiting room.   
Reluctantly, Sherlock stood and left the treatment room, returning to the fully packed waiting room.  
The wife of the man two chairs down from you on your left has a string of lovers, both male and female.-SH  
The coffee is repulsive. I'm fairly sure they used water from the Thames.-SH  
Do you really think about us mid-coitus?-SH  
SHERLOCK! You can't ask things like that over text!-JW  
Oh? Why not? It's a simple yes or no question.-SH  
I know, Sherlock, but it's just not on. Not good.-JW  
Are you becoming aroused?-SH  
If you continue down this line of conversation, I swear to God, I'll turn my phone off.-JW  
I'll only come back to the treatment room.-SH  
I will ask the nurses to throw you out. If I don't want you here, they will make you leave.-JW  
Fair enough. The woman who just walked in with her father wants to divorce her husband.-SH  
Oh? I suppose you know why, do you?-JW  
She's pregnant with her lover's child.-SH  
Honestly, Sherlock, how much of this are you making up to amuse me?-JW  
You doubt me?-SH   
I'm offended.-SH  
The texts continued in a similar manner for the next two hours, and John found himself laughing at several of the texts, gaining him several strange looks. It was definitely nice, having something to make him smile during the treatment.  
Finally, the last of the liquid drained from the bag, and the nurse pulled the needle from his port, taping a cotton ball into place over top of it. John stood up, the effects of the drug not yet affecting him. He walked out into the waiting room, motioning for Sherlock, who waited as patiently as possible for John to make his next appointment. In the mean time, he called a cab for the both of them.  
“I'm starving,” John said as they waited.  
“What are you in the mood for? Dine in or takeaway? And for that matter, what time of food?”  
“Nothing too spicy, just in case. Dining in at Angelo's?” That sounded just as good as a gourmet restaurant.  
“Angelo's it is.”  
When the cab arrived, Sherlock gave the driver the address, making sure to look him in the eyes. Since he'd had two horrible experiences, it was a force of habit now, to identify the cabbie. Luckily, this one was just a normal, run of the mill guy, who dropped them off at the right place and didn't try to kill them.  
“How do you feel?” Sherlock asked once they had been seated.  
“Other than hungry, relatively well. I thought it would have more of an effect than this.”  
“Give it time,” Sherlock murmured as Angelo came over to take their order.  
They ordered water, rather than wine, mostly because of John. When it came time to order their food, John went with lasagne, while Sherlock ordered crab risotto. They ate in comfortable silence, speaking occasionally.   
“Am I supposed to go with you to each treatment?” Sherlock asked.  
John shook his head, swallowing a bite. “Of course not. I told you that you didn't even have to come to this one, but you wanted to.”  
“I did want to. I wanted to see what it was like. Instead, I got stuck in the waiting room.”  
“I tried to warn you,” John pointed out. “But you don't have to go to the others. I can have Harry take off work. She's more at ease sitting in waiting rooms anyway. Or at least, being in rooms with other people and not feeling the need to deduce them.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John stopped him. “It's not a bad thing. I understand your brain works differently than most people's. But it does present a problem when you sit in public places, spouting off their darkest secrets.”  
“Perhaps if they weren't so obvious,” Sherlock started.  
John shook his head, cutting him off. “No, Sherlock. Even if you can see it, most people can't. What you see as obvious isn't to most people.”  
“Yes, I am familiar with how my brain works,” he huffed. “I see things others can't.”  
“So why do you feel the need to tell others about it?”   
“Because I'm bored!”  
John sighed. Of course. Sherlock was always bored. “We're going to have to find you another hobby,” he said, using a crust of bread to clean his plate.  
Sherlock watched him intently, looking for any sign of nausea. So far, there was none, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't experience it later that night. After they had finished eating, they thanked Angelo and made their way home. It was still early in the day, only a little after two in the afternoon, but John could already feel his energy draining.   
Grabbing a blanket, he curled up on the sofa, turning on the telly. Rather than watching it, he closed his eyes, listening to the programme. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the treatment had taken most of the energy he had, and within minutes, John was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for how late this is in being updated. What with finals last semester, my trip to England over break, and getting back to school this semester, things have been more than a bit hectic. I'm going to try to get better at posting regular updates, but don't hold me to it because I have a job and all that fun stuff. I still plan on finishing the fic, I swear.


	11. Author's note!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick rundown of what's going on/why I haven't been on in a while.

Hello all you lovely people who are still out there and interested in reading! Yes, I know I promised I would try to be more regular about posting, but that clearly didn't happen. I feel like I owe you an explanation. First, my muse suddenly disappeared. Not to worry! It's back and in full swing. So the story will be continued. It just might not be as often as you would like. I'm a college kid, with all the time that college kids have, plus a creative writing major, so I'm trying to put together a big-girl portfolio and all. So with all of that going on, it's been crazy hectic! Luckily, I have fall break coming up, and if you give me time and just a bit of patience, I'll reward you with TWO chapters and not just one when I update. That will be soon. I promise. Thank you all so much for sticking with me and sticking with the story. I know it's a bit annoying having to wait for the next installment of something you're REALLY into. So again, thank you! It means so much to me. You have no idea. I love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, this is my first fic. As in, ever. And I'm really bad about finishing fics, so if you like it, please /please/ let me know. The rating is for later chapters, most likely.


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